"The will to live is the greatest factor in
survival itself."
--John "Lofty" Wiseman

BackgroundTerrence Ira McKenzie was born in
Darwin, in the Northern Territory of Australia in April of 1966, son of Alex, manager
of the Flying Jug, a local pub, and Jocelyn, who taught in the nearby
high school. His mum was from New Caledonia and spoke French in
the house -- it was also the subject she taught in school, giving
him little choice but to learn it.

He had his mother's blond hair until he
was five or six, when it darkened and only summers spent in the
sun brought it close to its original shade. His green
eyes favored his father, as did his build, solid and broad-shouldered
from the time he was young, though he never quite reached six feet. Most of his days as a kid were
spent chasing animals in the bush, playing rugby and helping out in
his dad's pub.

Birthdays were always a special occasion around
the house, as was any excuse for the family to get together.
Even Saturdays would do. Presents notwithstanding, Terry
dreaded his birthday celebration, which without fail would end up with the story
of the night of his conception as told by his extremely snockered pop.

When he was 10 years old he broke his left
arm in a fall from the second floor of a vacant building after
climbing up to crumbling balcony on a dare. It was more a badge
of honor to him than anything, and one in a long line of minor
injuries resulting from his willingness to try just about anything
once.

He had several playmates, most of whom he
still keeps track of and sees when he visits home. They get
together and get piss drunk, staggering home around daybreak and
proving that he'll never be too big to be hollered at by
his mum. Always closest to him was his cousin, Addie. Handsome
but a little awkward into his teens, he had few girlfriends, and she
provided him with most of his reference for future dealings with the
opposite gender.

Terry
was always bright but had little interest in school, never earning more
than average marks before he dropped out altogether at
sixteen. He made a living working odd jobs around town until the
following year when coverage of the invasion of the Falkland Islands
inspired him to join the Australian army.

He was given the nickname Darwin, named,
as some were, after his hometown. Later, though, his fellow
soldiers began to equate it more with the naturalist than the
town. It didn't take long to realize the
major lack of action in his home country and he headed
for another, moving in with cousins in London before joining the British army. His intelligence and
enthusiasm brought him to the attention of his superiors, one of whom
recommended him for Selection into the Special Air
Service.
Despite starting out with a raging bout of the flu, Terry made it through the
physically and mentally exhausting tryouts and in 1986 found himself
accepted into one of the most respected and feared elite military
units in the world.

That was also the year that his
grandfather, after whom he was named, passed away. They had
always been close and the elder Terrence, a decorated veteran of World
War II, was the first member of the family to fully support and
encourage Terry's choice to join the military.

Two months into his training, Terry was
a passenger on a helicopter that went down off the coast of
England when the pilot was knocked unconscious by heavy, wind-induced
turbulence. No one else on board knew how to pilot the craft --
not that they didn't try -- and it plunged into the icy waters of the
Atlantic. None of the men were killed or even seriously injured in the crash,
but the
incident inspired Terry to learn how to pilot both rotary and
fixed-wing, prop-driven aircraft.

The
standard six
months required training with Special Projects landed him in Belfast,
Northern Ireland and gave him his first up-close and personal
experience with terrorism. He was struck, particularly, by how
the populace appeared to have grown accustomed to the constant threat
of violence. The time he spent there sparked an interest in
counter-terrorism, something he would return to later in his career.

During the
Gulf War, SAS teams were inserted deep within Iraq to search for mobile
Scud launchers. They would locate the launchers and then call in
air strikes or dispatch the missiles themselves. Within nine days
of the war's beginning, Scud launches from the SAS' area of
responsibility had stopped entirely.

On January
22, 1991, Terry was part of an eight-man team dropped deep behind Iraqi
lines. The team was compromised twenty-four hours after insertion when they
were spotted by a young goatherd. They tried
to escape west to Syria -- over 150 miles away. A faulty radio
made communications impossible and the team was split
up during the worst weather the region had experienced in 30
years. Of the original eight-man team four
were captured, two were killed by enemy soldiers and one died of
exposure. Dehydrated, half-starved and wounded in a firefight
that killed his remaining companions, Terry managed to make it alone
across the Syrian border to safety -- a journey of 180 miles -- on
foot.

Despite a
quick recovery from his physical injuries, Terry suffered from recurring
nightmares for years afterward, even resorting to medication -- and when
that wasn't available, some very serious drinking -- to get
himself to sleep. He never allowed it to affect his performance
and in fact managed to keep any sign that all was not well hidden from
his superiors.

Following the war he requested a return to his
former Special Projects counter-terrorism assignment, serving in the
Middle East, Eastern Europe and Russia, the latter mission for
which he went by the name Piotr Rodchenko and learned
to speak Russian fluently. He also returned to Northern
Ireland, infiltrating a branch of the IRA under the guise of a
disgruntled ex-army grunt named Erin Hill.

It was during this time that Terry was
called upon to carry out missions that would have no doubt been
frowned upon by the UN. His miraculous escape from Iraq as well
as his previous record had drawn the attention of his superiors.
They believed that his ability to think on his feet and his strong
survival instinct would combine well with training in the field of
espionage.

And they were right. He was
introduced to a man named Cyril Graham -- no rank was ever mentioned
and Terry wasn't altogether certain that the man belonged to the
military at all. Under Graham's tutelage, Terry proved to be a
consummate bullshit artist, able to infuse his words and manner with
an utterly believable sincerity. He was versed in all the latest
related technology, though he preferred not to rely on it. He
was taught how to obtain and copy sensitive documents, acted as a
courier between high-ranking officials -- carrying top secret
materials and contraband across borders all over the world, and
participated in the unsanctioned rescues of British and Australian
nationals taken hostage by terrorists or foreign governments.
All this while still maintaining his work with the SAS.

On assignment in Israel, he and four
Israeli soldiers were fired on near Qiryat Shemona, close to the
Lebanese border. Responding to the attack, they killed one
of their assailants and wounded two others, discovering later that all
were under the age of sixteen.

Together with his experiences in
Northern Ireland, this prompted him to delve even further intothe
field of counter-terrorism and hostage negotiation until in 1997 he
retired from the SAS to teach both military and police personnel
around the world. He's worked with the FBI and Scotland
Yard, as well as the authorities in his native Australia as an advisor on
hostage negotiations and counter-terrorist measures.

His work with worldwide police and
military organizations has allowed him the freedom to continue his
extracurricular operations virtually unnoticed, though for several different employers over the last three
years. Terry scrupulously avoids jobs that directly
contradict his counter-terrorist efforts, and there are organizations,
governments and individuals with whom he will refuse to work regardless of the fee.

On the relationship front, Terry's career has left him
little time for anything long-term, even as a civilian. He's still
very close to his cousin, Addie, but their relationship these days
consists mostly of long letters and high phone bills. With the exception of
a small flat in London he doesn't have any real base of operations,
living exclusively in hotels and driving rented
cars.